It's Father's Day and here we go again. The memories of my father come to the forefront one more time. I could talk for hours about him.
Except he never said much himself.
This was never more evident than in the later years. My dad's birthday was June 20, so it often coincided with Father's Day. He would like it when I took him out to eat at the Victoria Station on Tuckahoe Road in Yonkers.
Except we didn't really talk much over dinner. Not that we were mad at each other or anything. Indeed, at this restaurant, it didn't really matter. Because my father was mesmerized by a salad bar. Apparently, he had never seen them before. This was all you can eat and my dad sure did.
"Beet salad. I haven't had this since I used to get it at the deli on 238th Street."
"This cole slaw tastes like the one you would get at the deli near Scott's Bridge."
"Artichoke hearts. I didn't know they made these any more."
I realized that my dad was in heaven at this advanced age because he was reliving meals of the past. The trips to the Bronx delicatessens. My father would go there every Saturday morning to stock up for the week. I understood. These days myself, I crave tastes and treats from my youth.
I guess the best way to describe my dad was that he wasn't verbally demonstrative. He conveyed more with a look than with his words. I got plenty of looks, trust me. And the few words I got needed to be listened to.
From time to time when I was a kid, my father would pull me out into the driveway. He had the two baseball gloves in our house. It was time for a good old fashioned catch. He would stand at the end by the street. Otherwise, I'd be running out into traffic to get all the balls I would miss.
Dad would toss the ball to me. I was still pretty uneasy with this game. I'd steady myself and, instead of letting the ball come to me, I would throw my hand at it. It would always bounce away.
"Two hands! Two hands!"
Words that still play in my head. And rare coming from my father.
If I looked out the window on a summer's afternoon to see my dad washing the windshield of whatever Buick we had at the time, I knew that meant only one thing.
We were going up to the Elmsford Drive-In Theater that night.
My father didn't have to say a word.
Given my dad's limited use of dialogue, I often wondered just what the hell he and my mother ever talked about. When they were dating, what were those conversations like? Or, did my mom talk the blue streak and never noticed that my father was even part of the evening?
When I was around ten, I uncovered their secret. Both were working at nights at the time. I was shepherded by my grandparents. Mom and Dad would come home at midnight. One night, I woke up and saw a light in the kitchen down the hall. They were catching up on their days over a glass of milk. And my father was doing a lot of the conversing.
So, as I crept back to bed, I realized that it was possible. The man did have something to say. It wasn't just a series of stern looks that signaled to me that I better not do that again.
My father rarely showed any emotion. There were a few moments of anger when I must have done something the second time after being told I better not do that again. I only saw him tear up twice. Once was when he came home early from work the day my grandfather died. He walked into Grandma's kitchen with all of us gathered around the table. He broke down and bolted from the room.
The second time was a bit more obscure. We were on a Sunday drive. Just me and my father. And, for some bizarre reason, we were motoring down the West Side Highway. News came over the radio. General Douglas MacArthur had died. I looked over at my father and was astonished to see tears streaming down his face.
"My boss died."
I guess that's the way an Army guy would see it.
I did see laughter. I remember him howling out loud when he took me to see the movie "Operation Petticoat." On television, he loved Jackie Gleason and the Fred Mertz character. Later on, I can recall the rare occasion of both my parents laughing together as they watched "All in the Family."
Of course, I would learn later that my father's true emotions did appear from time to time. His brother, my namesake, had been killed in the waning days of the Second World War in Europe. At the time, he had been engaged to a girl named Stella. Several years later, Stella married someone else. And my entire family was invited to the reception. Stella would tell me this story after my father died.
At the reception, my father came over to Stella and was, according to her, sobbing.
"This is such a nice wedding. We really wanted you in our family."
Rare words from my dad. But, oh, so poignant.
Indeed, he did have something to say.
Me? I got words of wisdom as I grew up. For instance, if we were at a baseball game....
"Don't buy a soda from the vendor if it's the last one in his tray."
Oh. About ten years later, when I was a vendor at Yankee Stadium desperately trying to sell that one last soda, my dad's words ping ponged around my noggin again.
"If your car is more than five years old, drop the collision."
Oh. I remember my father telling everybody that as I was growing up. As if it was his signature advice. Of course, when my very first car, that Toyota Corolla, hit the five year mark, I didn't wait for my dad's voice. I dropped the freakin' collision.
"Don't buy a roll after 3PM."
I have no clue whether my father had scientific knowledge of how fresh or stale a roll had become late in the afternoon. But this was his mantra every time we visited a bakery.
"At the end of every traffic jam is a cop."
I hear that declaration to this very day. And, as I drive around either Los Angeles or New York, it's always proven to be the case.
With so few words, I never ever doubted that my father cared for me. None is more evident by the wordless act that he exhibited when I became a New York Met fan. Three times a year, we would drive out to Shea Stadium for a game together and I would be in my young, giddy glory. Several years later, it was my mother who shared the sacrifice being made.
"You know, your father was a big Yankee fan all his life. But he stopped to become a Met fan because you were."
And he rooted for the Mets the rest of his life.
Those are the little things a father does. Without attention. Sans fanfare. Uttering nary a word.
I think about this today. Those car rides to Flushing. We'd say little. The car radio was on and, with my dad driving, it was always WNEW 1130. Middle of the road. On one of those treks, a song came on and this always reminds me of my dad. Whenever I hear it now, I can see the stadium, replete with those blue and orange aluminum plates, looming up in front of me. The vinyl of the Buick passenger seat sticking to the back of my legs. Dad saying nothing.
I hear this tune again and every sensation and every nuance comes back to me.
I never had kids. I wonder what kind of father I would have been. I've been a great godfather, pseudo uncle, and a surrogate, but never a real dad. I can only imagine the real sensation.
You learn your parental skills from how you were treated. It's a family heirloom being passed down from generation to generation. I think about this relationship that never happened. Would I talk more with my son?
Regardless of what traits I would pick up and discard, I think I would have made a good father. I had a good one myself.
So, on this Father's Day afternoon with my dad gone for over two decades and his birthday again just around the corner, I'll be at my Dodger Stadium seats. My father will be next to me. How will I know?
When Yasiel Puig goes to catch a fly ball, I will yell out.
"Two hands! Two hands!!"
Dinner last night: Pepperoni pizza.
Memories of my first job. And, well, it is Father's Day.
Dinner last night: The wonderful pre-game buffet at the Dodger Stadium Club.
This gem opened sixty years ago this month and it was one of the top films of the year. I recently watched the Blu-Ray and the performances hold up.
Some of the movies opening this month may be forgotten by July 4. But, that's what happens in Hollywood today. You know the monthly drill, gang. I'll comb through the film section of the newspaper and give you my gut reaction to the crap being shoved down our throats at the local multiplex.
Hell, maybe we should all stage a mutiny.
Million Dollar Arm: Reviewed here recently. Scroll back please.
Godzilla: Apparently the monster now devastates a US city in California. Why not? The Japanese are all here anyway.
Chef: Reviewed here last month, but it's not as easy a scrollback. Just skip the movie.
A Million Ways to Die in the West: And One Good Way to Die in a Movie Theater.
X-Men - Days of Future Past: I'm like 12 movies behind in the X-Men franchise.
Rio 2: I'm one movie behind in the Rio franchise.
Blended: Another Adam Sandler comedy. That's what they call an oxymoron. Or, in Sandler's case, a just plain moron.
Maleficent: Angelina Jolie as a witch. This must be a documentary.
The Other Woman: Another Cameron Diaz comedy. See the same joke I used for Adam Sandler.
Amazing Spiderman 2: I saw the first one. Nobody's going to catch me in this web.
Neighbors: Not the John Belushi-Dan Akyroyd movie. Not interested.
The Immigrant: Not the Charlie Chaplin short. Not interested.
Ida: I doubt this is about Rhoda Morgenstern's mother. Not interested.
Edge of Tomorrow: Tom Cruise and the end of the world. This could be a documentary on Scientology.
All Cheerleaders Die: Works for me.
22 Jump Street: So, the first was 21 Jump Street. If we get to 25 Jump Street, there have been too many sequels.
How To Train Your Dragon 2: With lots and lots and lots of newspaper.
Supermensch - The Legend of Shep Gordon: Mike Myers putting the heart paddles to his dead career.
The Human Race: A fictitious version of "Survivor." If such a thing is possible.
Lullaby: A man who's estranged from his family receives word that his father has chosen to take himself off life support within 48 hours. I see Anne Archer's name amongst the cast. Welcome back!
112 Weddings: A documentary about a wedding photographer who revisits some of his clients. Might also be called 56 Divorces.
Ivory Tower: A documentary that questions the cost -- and value -- of higher education in the United States. Since 2014 has been called the worst job market for recent college grads, this might be one to see.
Hellion: Family drama about a motocross and heavy metal-obsessed 13-year-old. The hellion with it.
Coffee in Berlin: A college student drops out and wanders the street of Berlin. The good news is that, in 2014, he can see the whole city.
The Signal: A computer genius captivates some friends. Hey, it saves a call to Tech Support.
The Hooligan Factor: Looking to re-connect with an estranged dad in jail. Gee, that's something everybody can identify with.
Benny and Jolene: Not to be confused with Benny and Joon, which was terrible as well.
Pulp: This is Spinal Tap with a disco flavor. Just watch the Rob Reiner movie and call it a night.
Grace of Monaco: Nicole Kidman as Grace Kelly. Please begin your laughter now.
The Moment: Jennifer Jason Leigh as a girl who falls in love in a mental institution. I'd hate to see the Saturday night dance.
Trust Me: Guess what? This is about a Hollywood agent. But the comedy sports a great cast. Felicity Huffman, William H. Macy, Allison Janney. It might be worth a look.
Borgman: A Dutch film about a vagrant who infiltrates a rich family. Down and Out in Belgium.
The Sacrament: Tracking down the leader of a cult. Bring your own Kool Aid.
The Fault in Our Stars: Teenagers in love. She's got an oxygen tank. He's got a fake leg. I'd hate to see that Saturday night dance, too.
Burning Blue: Two Navy fighter pilots in love. I doubt there's a Saturday night dance.
Belle: An illegitimate mixed race daughter of a Royal Navy Admiral is raised by her aristocratic great-uncle. Good night, everybody!
Dinner last night: Vegetable lo mein.
I came to NY last week and I wasn't on the ground more than ten minutes at JFK Airport before I had to scold some nitwit. I'm carrying my bags out of Baggage Claim. A woman in front of me stops dead in her tracks. I walk right into her.
She was texting on her phone. I gave her a message to send.
"Get your head out of your ass, lady."
The New Yorker in me still lives comfortably in my soul.
There are laws on the books that tell us we can't drive and text and use our phones at the same time. Marvelous legislation. I applaud all states who adopt this.
I would like to add a sub-clause to the rule. You really shouldn't be on your phones while walking either. Let's face it. This is a country that emphasizes multi-tasking. To a population that has a hard time doing one at a time successfully.
The dope in the airport would not be the first person I would collide with. When I was on business in Manhattan two days, other knuckleheads would stop short right in front of me. Obviously, big news had happened on the internet. It required immediate attention. Yes, that was me running right into you. And, frankly, I'm not sorry.
Don't get me wrong. I live on a cell phone, too. It goes everywhere with me. I'm always checking my various e-mail accounts. I have several because I have multiple careers. Plus there are Dodger scores to check and movie times to access. But, I'm a little peculiar.
I stop and do those things off to the side. Away from the oncoming traffic of imbeciles.
The number of clowns simply walking like zombies with their heads glued to their phone screen is astounding. I sat outside an office building for a few minutes and watched the parade of idiots walk by. More folks walking into others.
I look at the streets of midtown Manhattan. All are chewed up. There are potholes and divots all over the place. I walk gingerly across every street. Two arthritic knees will do that to a person. But, how do all these dummies manage to navigate these mine fields when they are paying 100% attention to their e-mail and nothing else.
There have to be lots of civil lawsuits against the City of New York from people who suffered injuries after falling on the torn-up boulevards of this gotham. My question is simple. How many of those suits could be tossed out of court because the injured party wasn't paying heed to their surrounding? How many were too busy texting their weekend plans at the Hamptons? Somebody must be keeping that stat some place.
We are now all lemmings going from place to place, but always in touch. Nowhere is this more evident than in midtown Manhattan. Look at what we have all become. Tied to instant information. I remember the good old days. If you weren't home, you missed a phone call. If you were on the phone, the other party got...wait for it...a busy signal. And what about those poor companies who made their business models around the production of these pre-voice mail pads.
In 2014, we have been blessed with wonderful inventions of technology. Our lives are so much easier.
Well, then, how come some folks are so much more stupid as a result?
Dinner last night: Beef with broccoli.
Happy birthday to Adrienne Barbeau. This is one of those days when you know a guy writes this blog.
1184 BC: DURING THE TROJAN WAR, TROY IS SACKED AND BURNED.
As opposed to Mark Sanchez who was often sacked but never burned.
323 BC: ALEXANDER THE GREAT DIES IN THE PALACE OF NEBUCHADNEZZAR II IN BABYLON.
Must suck to be Nebuchadnezzar at a book signing.
1345: THE MEGAS DOUX ALEXIOS APOKAUKOS, CHIEF MINISTER OF THE BYZANTINE EMPIRE, IS LYNCHED BY POLITICAL PRISONERS.
Can you blame them? The only good megas doux is a dead megas doux.
1509: HENRY VIII OF ENGLAND MARRIES CATHERINE OF ARAGON.
This Henry VIII must have been good in throne.
1776: THE CONTINENTAL CONGRESS APPOINTS THOMAS JEFFERSON, JOHN ADAMS, BENJAMIN FRANKLIN, ROGER SHERMAN, AND ROBERT LIVINGSTON TO THE COMMITTEE OF FIVE TO DRAFT A DECLARATION OF INDEPENDENCE.
And later became a musical.
1837: THE BROAD STREET RIOT OCCURS IN BOSTON, FUELED BY EHTNIC TENSIONS BETWEEN YANKEES AND IRISH.
Well, Yankees are never welcome in Boston.
1913: FOOTBALL COACH VINCE LOMBARDI IS BORN.
The original cheesehead.
1919: SIR BARTON WINS THE BELMONT STAKES, BECOMING THE FIRST HORSE TO WIN THE TRIPLE CROWN.
So a horse led the league in home runs, batting average, and runs batted in??
1920: DURING THE REPUBLICAN NATIONAL CONVENTION IN CHICAGO, PARTY LEADERS GATHER IN A BACK ROOM TO DECIDE ON A CANDIDATE. THIS WAS THE FIRST "SMOKE-FILLED" ROOM.
Talk about your second-hand smoke.
1930: POLITICIAN CHARLES RANGEL IS BORN.
The original shithead.
1933: ACTOR GENE WILDER IS BORN.
"Put the candle back!"
1935: INVENTOR IRWIN ARMSTRONG GIVES THE FIRST PUBLIC DEMONSTRATION OF FM BROADCASTING IN ALPINE, NEW JERSEY.
Armstrong? One small step for man, one giant leap for the Grateful Dead.
1942: DURING WORLD WAR II, THE UNITED STATES AGREES TO SEND LEND-LEASE AID TO THE SOVIET UNION.
Mistake-ski.
1945: ACTRESS ADRIENNE BARBEAU IS BORN.
And she has quite the barbeaus, doesn't she?
1962: FRANK MORRIS, JOHN ANGLIN, AND CLARENCE ANGLIN ALLEGEDLY BECOME THE ONLY PRISONERS TO ESCAPE FROM THE PRISON ON ALCATRAZ ISLAND.
If this happened today, they'd be on the View tomorrow.
1963: ALABAMA GOVERNOR GEORGE WALLACE STANDS AT THE DOOR OF THE UNIVERSITY OF ALABAMA TO BLOCK TWO BLACK STUDENTS FROM ATTENDING THAT SCHOOL.
This is when Wallace could actually stand.
1963: PRESIDENT JOHN F. KENNEDY PROPOSES THE CIVIL RIGHTS ACT OF 1964.
Planning ahead for 1964. Um, not so fast, Jack.
1969: ACTOR PETER DINKLAGE IS BORN.
The creation of another little person who will always be a little person.
1979: ACTOR JOHN WAYNE DIES.
Anybody who doubts this guy could act should watch "The Searchers."
1981: A 6.9 MAGNITUDE EARTHQUAKE IN IRAN KILLS AT LEAST 2,000.
Which is still not as many people killed on 9/11 by that same part of the world.
1985: PATIENT KAREN ANN QUINLAN DIES.
Plug. Pulled.
1999: ACTOR DEFOREST KELLEY DIES.
Beamed down.
2001: TIMOTHY MCVEIGH IS EXECUTED FOR HIS ROLE IN THE OKLAHOMA CITY BOMBING.
What goes around......
2002: ANTONIO MEUCCI AS ACKNOWLEDGED AS THE FIRST INVENTOR OF THE TELEPHONE BY THE US CONGRESS.
Alexander Graham Phooey.
2003: JOURNALIST DAVID BRINKLEY DIES.
Good night, David.
Dinner last night: Sausage and peppers at Modern Restaurant in New Rochelle.
Or, like the old TV commercial, maybe it's a breath mint. Or a candy. No, it's a breath mint.
What it is would be "Driving Miss Daisy - The Play." Which was a big Oscar winning movie of an earlier play. Now, it's a play filmed like a movie. This is way too complicated for such a simple story that features only three characters.
Across the country, there has been a trend for certain movie theaters to show non-movies. Operas from the New York Met. Concerts from around the world. Or...a stage play. That was once a movie of a stage play. Oh, here I go again.
I guess the enticement is to give folks around the country an opportunity to see a live production. Being based in Los Angeles and New York, I'm biased. I get that opportunity to see live theater any day of the week. But, I guess when you live in Bumfuk, Iowa the changes are slim and none. Unless, of course, you take an annual pilgrimage to Broadway with a pre-dinner reservation at the Olive Garden overlooking Times Square. But, other than that, you're not likely to see Angela Lansbury and James Earl Jones come to your town, so this is the next best thing.
I suppose.
I wanted to see what this was all about and, when I noticed that a local Westchester movie theater was featuring a single afternoon performance of this production of "Driving Miss Daisy," this was a golden opportunity. Keep in mind that, if you choose to do the same, they do drive up the ticket price. They wanted 19 greenbackerinos for this and, when you realize that the movie of the actual play is essentially 90 minutes, you better hope they validate your parking.
You also realize that this isn't so live when, as the film/play starts, a Blu Ray menu pops up on the screen. Okay, who in the audience has been entrusted with the remote? Again, 19 dollars and I'm watching a DVD??? I could probably find it on Amazon for 15 bucks.
This theatrical production of "Driving Miss Daisy" was actually filmed on an Australian theater stage. You hear the audience clap and laugh. You see the actors react to the audience reaction. It is theater lighting so the screen images are a little dark. That said, it is "Driving Miss Daisy" and the work remains engaging and flawless.
It marks one more time that I've seen Angela Lansbury "in person." She's one of those celebrities I've run into multiple times. On a plane. In a train station. Twice in her daughter's restaurant. You've also got James Earl Jones and I just recalled that I saw both him and Lansbury in a Broadway production of "The Best Man." They really were there. They weren't live on a screen. Meanwhile, Miss Daisy's son is played expertly by Boyd Gaines and I am annoyed to recall that he used to be Valerie Bertinelli's boyfriend on "One Day at a Time" way too many years ago. I was actually at the taping where his character was introduced. He was in person. I later watched in on tape.
It was a sitcom. No, it was a play. No, it was a sitcom.
And so it goes.
I enjoyed "Driving Miss Daisy - The Play" but realized that you can't really replace what happens in a live theater. Where the energy is such that you can touch it from either the orchestra or the balcony.
But, I suppose, if you live in Bumfuk, Iowa...
Thank the Lord I don't.
LEN'S RATING: Three stars if it's a movie. Three-and-a-half stars if it's a play.
Dinner last night: Smoked pork chop at E and E Grill House.
A classic rerun. Everybody loves a wet June bride.
Dinner last night: Had a big lunch so just a sandwich.
